


The Black King

by kryptic



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future Major Character Deaths, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic/pseuds/kryptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is hard and dark as onyx, and he requires a piece to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It is not the first time Daud has tied a man to a chair.  It is not the first time that man has been an Overseer.   It is, however, the first time he has endeavored to _catch_ one specifically, laying snares for him until he tumbles perfectly, helplessly, dangerously, into his hands.  But this man is no pawn.

He removes the mask, sets it aside, lets his eyes rove over his face.  A strong jaw, a dramatic hairline, a large, high forehead and a curved nose.  So this is the right one.  Daud pulls the broken needle from his neck and discards it, cautious.  That toxin is precious.  But it will not have been wasted.

The angle of the sun as it shines through broken walls is the only thing to betray the passage of time.  The stars are out when the prisoner finally comes to.

There are floodlights shining into his face with the specific purpose of blinding him until Daud comes forward to blot out their radiance.  A tall, broad shadow falls across his body.

His captive blinks the stars out of his eyes and attempts to focus in with poorly adjusted vision.  There is a short, startled laugh when he finally manages to make out the figure in front of him, quickly supplanted by a mockery of solemnity.  “I thought for a moment I must be having a nightmare.  Is that your _face_?”

“Hm.” Daud crosses his arms behind his back, pivoting slightly to the side. There is absolutely no laughter in his countenance.  The corner of his mouth twitches down with deep thought, and he takes a few more steps around the chair, letting the lights wash back onto his hostage’s face.  The Overseer thinks he must be carved of wood or else have a stick of it shoved up his ass.  Perhaps both.  “You’re not as witty as you think you are.”

The prisoner shifts in his bonds to sit up a little straighter, still confident in his own tenacity.  “Did I strike a nerve?”

This time, the assassin almost _does_ laugh, a snort abruptly escaping through his nose.  “No.”  There is something about the manner in which he pronounces the word which sounds inherently practiced – with such absolute conviction and a certain subtlety in his tone that could give it a thousand different meanings and connotations, as if he says it with unending frequency.  His voice, gravel.  Everything about him stiff and rigid, but his movement is water.  A certain swagger in his step that spells out his indifference.  “I’m ugly and I always will be.  Once you’ve gotten past the obstacle of vanity, there is nothing more to be upset about.”

The mark of vanity, as he mentions, is absent from his appearance, but it is present in his deeds.  Measured.  Immaculate.  Placed on a pedestal for an observer not of this world.

He glances down and toys with the hilt of his sword almost affectionately before looking up again.  “I can make _you_ ugly, Overseer.  I can also make you dead.  In fact, I can do almost anything I want with you while you’re under my power.  Think on that.”

And it is not a threat.  This man does not _threaten_ ; he promises.  Simple, frank, with no elegant or masculine posturing.  Raw and real and red.

“Anything you want, eh?  Did you bring me here to interrogate me or proposition me?”  There is a wry twist to the Overseer’s mouth, overconfident posturing.  He expects physical violence, no doubt.  Torture.  Perhaps there is a way out for him, a tablet concealed in a tooth or one of his cigarettes.  Daud didn’t even bother checking.  This man will not kill himself for the Abbey; he’s entirely the wrong sort.  (Ambitious, yes, but not devoted.  It is a path for him, nothing more.)  He is, however, inherently self-serving, and he will do what he can to ease his own suffering.  If Daud hands him his life, however, it will tip the scale.  Open him to negotiation.

Any brute can torture a prisoner into submission.  The work of mutes in dungeons with hot pokers, not even worthy of the Outsider’s mark.  Daud is an intellectual.  He prefers the psychology of captivity.  The philosophy.  And this fish was caught for a reason – because his flesh will go smooth and easy down the Abbey’s throat.  Plans have been laid and the chessboard set, and he is the perfect piece to fit them.

“Very funny,” Daud says.  It isn’t.  “Now, if you’ve finished with your attempts at humor.”

The assassin resumes his pacing again.

“I realize that you know who I am.  If you intended to avoid divulging that little detail in hopes of preserving your own life, you can lay that concern to rest immediately.”  Daud speaks as if he is allergic to lying, harsh lines and sour tones matching those that show in his face.  “I’m not going to kill you.  I advise that you avoid trying to martyr yourself and force my hand.  Somehow, I don’t think that will be an object.”

He turns and confronts his prisoner with the immovable, granite authority of a monolith.  Cocky, his hostage theorizes, trying to spot a weakness.  Set in his ways.

“An agent within the Abbey will be very useful to me, if you agree to cooperate.”

A moment of startled silence.  The man chuckles.  It’s good to see his impressions confirmed.  He leans back and spreads his legs, getting comfortable.  “What makes you think that I’ll help you?”

 “I don’t think.  I know you will.”  Daud offers an unamused, wolfish grin.  He makes sure that he has the other’s attention before he speaks.  “I’ve done my research, Martin.”

The Overseer’s eyes widen slightly before he trains his face back into its practiced nonchalance.  Still, he makes no sound, though Daud can imagine a whole slew of barbs that the self-styled comedian could be using in another attempt to provoke him into a rage.  It means that he has placed his gambit well so far.  First the check, now the mate.

The wolf-grin widens until he’s ready to bite.  Still no humor in his expression.  “Surprised that I know your name?  It isn’t all I know about you.”  He takes a step forward until there is barely any space between them, and he is positioned right beside the vertex of the angle in Martin’s legs.  The posture that once made his captive feel superior now forces him into submission.  “It is my understanding that you’re still a wanted criminal in many parts north of here, Teague.”

And Martin actually flinches for once, his calm now disintegrating.  He squints, trying to see the weakness in Daud.  The dishonesty, the carefully concealed pettiness that nearly every citizen of Dunwall possesses.  And it isn’t there.  Could that quality be absent from foreign soil, or is he simply an exception among all others?  How can he be so simple, and yet so complicated?

Daud pulls off a glove and holds the Mark up for the other man to see, among a tangle of scars and mottled, dun-colored skin.  _Oh._

The assassin reaches out to press the branded hand against his cheek.  There is a curious light in Martin’s eyes as he does so.  The Overseer turns his head without realizing, as if inexorably drawn toward the arcane symbol burned into the other man’s flesh.  He presses his cheek against Daud’s hand and lays skin against blackened skin, teeth clenching, neck tensing, then, finally relaxing.  His lips part in the smallest of smiles.

Daud tips his head back the slightest degree to admire his fallen adversary.  Checkmate.


	2. Negotiations

They retire to his office to hold their discussion.  Darkness, hushed tones, the soft glow of cigarettes.  It is all very subdued, very clandestine, and Daud does it well.  The cut of his shoulders and the posture of his hands cultivate a certain atmosphere that brings to mind old tales of bandits and highwaymen, the enigmatic leader at the center of it all.  He carries airs without noticing or caring that they exist, some strange charisma clinging to him like a cloak.  Martin could almost accuse him of being a romantic, but he already knows what the reply would be.  Humorless.

It is quiet for now, nothing but the whisper of wind through stone and splinter to add sound to their evening.  Martin looks down and forces himself to appraise the area, though it is more for his own entertainment than anything else.  If Daud wants to kill him, he’s going to, and no amount of inspection can change that.

The plaster is cracking and the smell of salt air is never far away. The wood rots and carpet festers, and besides the man in the red coat and his empty grey eyes, there is nothing very romantic about it at all. The absence of a single chair in the entire room indicates that one assassin must be very fond of standing, and Martin earns himself a stern glare when he attempts to perch himself on one of the many desks. Does he really need more than two?

But the secrecy of it stirs him, and the roughness.  Something about the way that the light of the lamps falls across the assassin’s coat.  Martin realizes that Daud was lying earlier, when he called himself ugly, though he didn’t know it.  He is _striking_ , in his own way.  And Martin is staring.  Oh well.  Let him write it off to skeptical scrutiny.

And of course, his interest _is_ noticed, though it is not recognized.  Daud won’t admit that the whimsical look in the Overseer’s eye intrigues him, but it does, and he can’t quite help the way he focuses in to watch, nor can he turn away fast enough when he is caught in the act.

“Something for you?” Martin asks, chin tipped back knowingly, a young man’s voice and a young man’s humor.

“Shut up.”

And that puts an end to the small talk.

Another cigarette. Daud glances at the faces on his wall, and Martin’s eyes follow him. The portraits stare back with dark eyes haunting in the gloom, austere and malevolent. All dead men and women, though some don’t yet know it. And there – is that…? But the lights are dim, and it cannot be.

The rasp of a spark fills the room before dying out, and smoke curls languidly into the air. The glove is on Daud’s hand again as he raises yet another light to his lips, but Martin cannot look at him without seeing it, nor feeling it, burning against his face. And it makes him smile, knowing that he plays with something forbidden. Here in the dark with a Marked man. 

“A shame, that you went to those idiots in the Abbey,” Daud begins, eyes hovering at the sigil on the sleeve of Martin’s coat before darting to the Overseer mask laid aside on his desk.  A wonderful way to open negotiations.  “You could have joined me.”

Whatever laughter is left in Martin’s face dies immediately.  He can be serious when it is demanded of him.  Cutthroat, even.  Often simply for pleasure.  Daud likes that.  He has sought it out on purpose.

Now, the easy smile is a razor’s edge.  He tugs at his sleeve, runs a glove over the insignia it bears.  “It’s not the Abbey that attracts me so much as the opportunities it offers for advancement.”

“The Outsider doesn’t offer the same opportunity?”

His name invoked so bluntly.  Martin’s lip twitches with distaste.  “Not in the way that I would like.”

Daud inclines his head a few degrees and says nothing.  He turns to face Martin with a face half in light and half in darkness, mouth trailing smoke as he speaks.  In that instant, there is no mistaking him for anything but a predator.  Which begs the question.  Who is his prey?

“There will be an opening in the office of the High Overseer soon enough.  I suppose you’d like to see yourself there.”

“And you would like to see me there?”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose you expect me to work for you while I am.”

“Obviously.”

“And what do I get in return?”

Daud unsheathes his sword, exactly the same as those all of his men carry – no polish to it, aesthetically or otherwise.  It suits him well, so well that Martin cannot possibly picture another blade in his hand.  A bit of steel for killing, and all of the finesse comes from its user.  He has seen those flips and twirls.  The men are more dancer, sometimes, than Whaler.  Their leader spares no energy on even a single unnecessary movement.

“A place in the seat of the High Overseer.  A sharp blade whenever you need it.”  A short pause and a precautionary afterthought.  “Within reason.”

At this, Martin raises his brows.  He imagines red splashed all over the roughly crosshatched surface of that rudimentary blade.  “You’d kill for me?”

“Would you kill for me?”

And the Overseer knows that Daud’s words are not an innocent question nor a statement of incredulity, as his had been.  They are part of the agreement, a requirement.  It is not _would_ , it is _will_.

They stand and regard each other for a long moment.  Neither answers.

Good enough.

Daud slides his sword back into its sheath and nods.  “You’d best start walking if you intend to return to the Abbey before they start burning your possessions.”

Martin looks surprised for the first time in hours.  “You’re not going to take me back?”

He turns halfway up the stairs and looks back at him with no small amount of spite.  It is the closest Martin has heard the assassin come to laughter so far.


	3. The Rendezvous

There is a span of weeks before Martin comes to visit again. If Daud didn’t know better, he would say that the Overseer was upset with him. Pouting, even. At last, Daud decides to see what the other man is up to, why his messages have failed to arrive.

It makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle to venture anywhere near Holger Square. He perches on a rooftop, tucked out of view, and reads the stolen watch roster by the light of the full moon. Martin should be passing by at any moment.

Of course, it is hard to tell one Overseer from the other behind the carefully crafted masks. The art of concealment is one Daud knows well, and those masks have always intrigued him. He would be lying if he said that he had not drawn inspiration from those sculpted white faces, like evil spirits in and of themselves. The Whalers are counterpart to the supposed holy men - the dark, the insubstantial. The Void.

The inspiration from his past helps him now. Watching his own men has given Daud the tools to recognize any zealot in uniform. Even more telling than a person’s face is their demeanor – their carriage, their gait, the way they look to and fro or stare directly ahead. Whether they clasp their hands behind their back or swing them at their sides, the precise angle or stoop of their shoulders, the tendency to favor one leg over the other.

Teague Martin stares straight ahead. Good discipline for a soldier, but his discipline hobbles him when Daud blinks up behind him and grips him firmly around the neck.

The last thing he sees is the night sky before he floats back into consciousness on the floor of an abandoned apartment.

A Whaler safehouse, Teague notices, taking in the sight of bolts and elixirs stuffed into the shelter’s nooks and crannies. There is Daud, of course, seated above him like a royal and leaning forward on the edge of his chair. Watching.

“Just like the first time we met,” Teague muses in a hoarse bastardization of his normal, musical voice. He rubs the bruises on his neck and takes greedy gulps of air down a sore gullet, grateful that his mouth and nose are uninhibited by the mask. Perhaps he is too eager, for a drop of spittle catches in his throat and throws him into a coughing fit.

His regal audience rolls impatient grey eyes and tosses him an empty metal cup.

“Sink’s in there,” Daud snaps with a jerk of his head. The furrows on his brow are even deeper than they were last time, which seems impossible.

“Not happy to see me, then,” the Overseer manages between gasps and hacks. His eyes are beginning to water.

The assassin grinds his jaw. “On the contrary. I feared I’d never see you again.”

Martin takes the hint and stumbles to his feet, his vision stained with black momentarily as the blood rushes from his head. Staggering forward until he can feel the door frame smack against his groping hand, he stumbles into the washroom.

The mirror is long since stained and cracked, most of it barely there. As is, Teague doubts that he would even want to know what he looks like. He turns on the faucet and captures a cupful of biting cold water, grateful at least that the pipes haven’t frozen through. Forcing the water down between coughs, he feels his chest clear. His mouth turns from paper to flesh, and thankfully, he feels human again.

“What did you come here for?” he asks, bracing himself against the wall as he looks at Daud. The assassin gives the now slightly familiar humorless smile.

“Security on my investment.”

“Am I some kind of currency now?”

“Your services are. I thought that we’d established that when we traded on them. You are merely the provider of that service.”

Martin smirks and lets loose a small, charming chuckle. “You want me to service you?”

The innuendo isn’t lost on Daud. He simply makes a decision not to notice it. The wolflike grin turns into a frown, cutting deep into his features.

“I want you to make good on your end of the bargain, before I take back mine.”

His hand doesn’t even need to drift to the hilt of his sword. Martin understands the allusion.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he insists, before they can progress much further in that line of thinking. “Not much has gone on here since I made my way back. They only just stopped interrogating me about my mysterious disappearance to the Flooded District.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“That I had been taken hostage by the agents of the Outsider, but managed to escape their wiles. They’re still deciding whether they want to tar and feather me or put my name on a plaque.”

“I’d opt for the tarring and feathering,” Daud says. He would, too. “But that’s beside the point. None of that has inhibited your ability to write a simple message.”

“I fully intended to. You must understand, Daud, I’m not a man to waste resources on unimportant news. I felt that, if there were urgent business, you would find the opportunity to talk.” His hand drifts to his aching throat again. “Which you did.”

“I won’t let you evade this contract.”

“I don’t intend to. Believe what you like of me, but I’m as invested in this arrangement as you are.”

“Are you, now.”

“Would I lie to you, Daud?”

Martin cocks his head with an appealing smile. Daud, unimpressed, merely twitches the corner of his lip.

“Agree to meet me here. This time, every week. If you aren’t going to maintain consistent communication, I’ll do it for you.”

His guest – or captive – takes a peek out of the window. They are in sight of the Office of the High Overseer, within walking (and sneaking) distance of the barracks.

“Fine,” Martin sighs, filling the word with maximum reluctance.

There is no reply from Daud, who disappears before the younger man can even turn around.


	4. Chapter 4

Martin arrives on time the next week, more to save himself from the marks of another chokehold than for the sake of punctuality.  He is already perched precariously on a sofa covered by canvas and stained with Outsider-knows-what when Daud arrives.  His coat is dusted with soot and his gloves are slick and shiny with a fluid that Teague would prefer not to guess at.

The first thing Daud does is give him a nod, looking almost surprised to find him there first. Then the assassin disappears to the sink. Martin hears the sound of running water, though he cannot see around those broad, red shoulders to learn what Daud is doing in the other room.

“Don’t you have men who can take care of things like that?”

The Serkonan half-breed casts a languorous look back at him, then returns to his work. One glove hangs over the faucet now, dripping water.

“I have people who can take care of it.” After a moment’s silence, he takes a slightly different tack.  “Does the High Overseer lead worship in the morning?”

Martin raises his brows at the question, but answers. “On a normal day? Never.”

“Does he patrol with the other men?”

Once again, Martin replies no.

“What do you think would happen if he was called out by one of you younger lads? To state theory on the spirits and the battle with the Outsider, or to send his grenades exactly where he wanted them?”

Now, Daud turns away from the sink. Both of his hands are bare, a sight which Martin has never been faced with before. Somehow, covering up his skin makes it all the more alarming when it is exposed. He would never think twice to see two naked hands, but on Daud the spectacle makes his breath almost catch in his throat.

“He wouldn’t be able to do it. We all know that.” He still doesn’t see Daud’s point, though. “The whole purpose of being at the top is _not_ needing to do those things.”

“Among civilized, pious men who respect the order of society, yes. But I live among rats and thieves and river krusts, where we watch hagfish dine on fresh corpses every morning. Do you think my position would save me if I found a knife in my back?”

For a while, Martin says nothing. Then he quips, “You could have told me to shut up again.”

Daud sighs.

“I endeavor to make sure that you’ll actually learn something from this exercise.”

With that, he steps forward into the main room, pacing with his back straight and shoulders back, posture always flawless. Martin wonders if he will ever see this man sitting down, or if he sleeps standing up at night.

“Speaking of which. Do you have anything for me?”

Martin sits up a little straighter, clasping his hands lazily in front of him as if delivering a report to a cranky schoolteacher. The comparison makes him smile privately to himself, earning a scowl from Master Daud which he ignores.

“There was a bit of a scene today with one of the Oracles. She was running through the Abbey, though only the spirits above know _how._ ”

Daud nods. The Oracular Order has always intrigued him.

“Barefoot. She had her habit on, but not her veil. I could see that she was young, but not so young that this would be her first vision. That might explain it.

“She was screaming. I couldn’t make out very many words, but those I did hear didn’t seem to make sense. The Oracles speak in riddles. There was something about a shadow – a shadow out of the south, was what she said. And a queen below stairs. Two red men would lift the sword, but a third would swing it. That’s all I caught. Then they got her to the ground and dragged her away. Where, I don’t know.”

The assassin’s scarred face transforms for a moment. His lips are pursed and thoughtful. Dim light squeezes through the cracks in the walls and onto his face, and he lets it burn against one eye.

“Do the Oracles often break out that way?”

“No, I’ve never seen such a thing before. She seemed terrified. They left a bit of blood on the marble. I think it was from her fingernails clawing at the floor. Whatever she saw, she didn’t want to keep quiet about it.”

Daud smirks, but the expression never reaches his eyes. “Troubling times at the Abbey. Good news for you and me.”

Martin swallows hard, staring at the Mark on his bare left hand and letting his eyes flick to the red coat sleeves, a drop of blood spattered on the cheek of their owner. He narrows his gaze.

“… Are you the red man?”

“Or the shadow from the south? I wonder. It would be vain to think so.”

The words are no denial.

“Are you from the south?”

“Serkonos,” he replies casually. “More than twenty years ago.”

“You don’t look Serkonan.”

“Don’t I?”

And that’s all the answer that Martin receives to that question. Daud goes into the other room and puts his gloves on wet. Teague wonders if that qualifies as a dismissal. When the assassin begins to speak again, he settles back to his perch. Apparently not.

“You know the truth about High Overseer Campbell, I assume. Are the walls so thick in the Abbey that you can’t hear the courtesans screaming?”

A dark look crosses Martin’s face at that. It is utterly fascinating, but Daud doesn’t have enough time to scrutinize it before it disappears.

“I know. So do most of the others. Some prefer to keep their minds shut to it. See no evil.”

“And yet you still follow him. Why?”

“The Abbey is an idea, not a person. People are imperfect. Our goal is divine. We follow the tradition that named Campbell High Overseer, not the man himself.”

Daud scoffs. “You religious types make no sense.”

Martin falls silent for a long while, regarding him coldly. He almost shoves the words that he is about to say aside, but at the last moment turns and gropes for them again. There is almost anger in his eyes, an emotion which, juxtaposed with the Overseer’s typical easy humor, is borderline frightening.

“What will you turn to, Daud, when your crimes catch up with you? You must know what it’s like to feel your guilt hanging over your head. Every moment of every day.”

There is a long silence. He attempts to dredge up any trace of emotion that he can find. Somewhere, far, far away in the dark, is a woman with a lantern, waiting up at night.

The assassin shakes his head only once, firmly. “No such thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long.


End file.
